


Comparatively Docile

by therantygeek



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therantygeek/pseuds/therantygeek
Summary: This has to be the single most filthy and debauched thing I’ve written (to date at least). A routine extra-dimensional expedition with an initiate to escort turns into something rather more interesting for a slightly unusual master of Kamar-Taj. Or: what the hell is that mystical alternate universe pollen doing to us?Warnings: absolute filth/smut, the usual potential dubcon of the sex pollen trope, dubious use of scientific nomenclature.





	Comparatively Docile

Well, it was official. You were going to kill him.

‘I really don’t know what you’re so worried about. It’s an _extremely_ simple colocation mantra followed by an embarrassingly basic spatial node inversion-‘

Wham. Dead. Would anyone even mind?

‘-are you even listening to me at this point?’

‘I’m trying not to,’ you snap, hefting your satchel over your shoulder and continuing your dogged stalk down the latticed corridor. Of course the insufferable jerk caught up in two long strides and actually swerved in front of you, spreading his arms in half-jesting protest when you just sidestepped around him without missing a beat.

‘You know,’ he added, setting off after you again without even taking a breath, ‘I can’t shake the feeling you don’t like me.’

‘Really.’ You resist the urge to shoot him a glare. Or possibly just shoot him. ‘What could _possibly_ be giving you that impression?’

‘Aside from the fact that you look like you’re barely controlling the urge to smack me in the mouth?’

‘Huh. Maybe you _are_ as smart as you claim.’

‘I’m at least capable of basic body language assessment,’ he replied mildly, turning so he was walking backwards alongside you without taking his gaze off your face. ‘Why don’t you like me?’

Oh, for god’s sake.

‘I fail to see how that’s relevant,’ you manage through half-gritted teeth, avoiding his gaze. Of course that bright cornflower regard was totally unfair on a guy, let alone combined with the slyly expressive mouth and cheekbones that could cut glass, but the handsome bastard still sent your blood pressure soaring for all the _wrong_ reasons.

‘Well, we are supposed to be running this…errand together, surely it’d be less tedious if we’re able to at least hold a conversation.’

Typical. Of course this was why you’d objected to him accompanying you, but the Ancient One had given one of those quiet, knowing looks that spoke volumes and so here you were. Saying _he may be cute but I also want to strangle him_ wasn’t really a good excuse to get a master of the mystic arts out of escorting an initiate.

‘I’d hardly call retrieving a crop of live aglaophotis from the Satya Bagecha an _errand_, Strange,’ you spit back in your best withering tone, ‘And certainly not something _tedious_ enough to warrant some kind of twenty questions-‘

‘Call me Stephen. And in fairness _you_ were the one who started muttering about aerial wards, so I was just pointing out the complete lack of necessity of those kinds of excess precautions-‘

‘Exactly how many times have you visited Satya Bagecha during dimensional perihelion?’ you demand, ignoring the casual invitation to first name terms, which at least seems to give him a moment’s pause.

‘Well. This _will_ be my first visit, but-‘

‘Then I strongly suggest you shut your mouth, stop trying to give _me_ advice and do as you’re told, since this will be my _sixth_ trip.’

To your lasting irritation that got only a cock of one slim eyebrow, which was a trick you envied the moment you saw it.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he quipped, with a lopsided smirk, then promptly fell both silent and a step behind your left shoulder as you entered the courtyard.

God, what an ass.

You attempted to focus on opening the portal, trying to ignore the way his gaze now seemed to be boring into your back.

‘That didn’t seem so complicated,’ he observed as the glowing circle settled into a steady thrum. ‘No different to normal gateway-opening, at least…’

‘It’s _very_ different. As well as envisioning the destination you have to utilise understanding of the dimensional node you’re accessing, not to mention the relative superstructural properties of neighbouring realities.’ You tried not to smirk at his slow blink and cock of his head. ‘Fail to concentrate or target properly and you end up in some back-end nowhere of the multiverse full of abyssal horrors ready to chew on your spleen.’

‘Well, I’m rather fond of my spleen so I hope you did it right,’ he replied lightly.

‘Shut up and go through.’

Of course you _had_ done it right – if not then something horrid would have crawled out the other way by now – and so passing through the portal just took you both from the cool, slightly smoggy air of Kathmandu into the bright light of the three suns that watched over Satya Bagecha. As always it smelt clean and fresh and a little like grass cuttings, at least to your senses. You couldn’t quite resist a sideways glance at Strange as he glanced over the vista, the nostrils on that fine-boned, aquiline nose flaring slightly as he inhaled before making an appreciative noise.

‘Hmm. Chinooks, post-thunderstorm air and ponderosa pine. I assume the sensory input is in some way psycho-reactive?’ The vaguely detached, clinical-style tone was back. All business again.

Thank god.

‘Multi-sensory psionic echoes,’ you confirm. ‘Generally childhood memories. Didn’t peg you for a mountain boy, Strange.’

‘Farm outside of Crawford in Nebraska,’ he replied with surprising amicability. ‘Not all that far south from Pine Ridge, actually.’

‘A _farm_ boy, huh?’ you can’t resist needling. ‘John Deere cap and a straw in the mouth. Good look.’

‘That’s Iowa,’ he shot back with a grin. ‘Nebraska is beef country.’

‘Oh, so a lasso and a cowboy hat then?’

‘Only on special occasions.’ He indicates the branching pathways through the waist-high grass that is the typical local shade of overly lustrous green. ‘Which way?’

‘That one will be a better bet. _Don’t_ go off the path, not even a little. In fact I’ll go first; you step where I step.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of not walking off an obvious pathway, you know.’

‘And yet.’ You glare at him until he moves aside with a small, put-upon sigh to permit you to lead. To be fair the meadow grass is far from the biggest threat in the area, but it pays to be careful rather than cocky and you’d rather not explain to the Ancient One how you let her current star pupil get his skin flayed off by inadvertently angering a passing Brahmalokan treant.

Then again, a little light flaying might make him a _tad_ less insufferable…

Putting that happy thought aside, you concentrate on placing your feet carefully. As usual the path is a little overgrown and some of the intruding grama are hard to identify properly, making them correspondingly dangerous. Even the famous Jaikrishna Folio was known to have surveyed only a tiny fraction of what bloomed, sprouted or otherwise grew in the Bagecha so the unknown was generally the thing to be wary of.

Strange doesn’t seem to be able to walk in silence, however, perhaps out of concern that his clever mouth will heal over if he doesn’t exercise it frequently. He peppers you with questions, or just tries to show off his background reading by identifying various plants and shrubs with their notable qualities as you pass them. At least the questions are generally well-informed, but he does appear to have swallowed several shelves of the library whole. No wonder Wong was so sick of him.

‘I’m not taking notes _or_ giving you marks,’ you point out when he comments a prominent sprout of nimloth root growing near the path. ‘So you don’t need to keep up the David Attenborough impression.’

‘Not at all,’ he replies, and despite the fact he’s walking behind you, you can just _smell_ the smug expression on his face. ‘You’re actually very informative. Most of the other masters seem to find my queries extremely…taxing. It’s quite a pleasant change to find someone who can keep up with me.’

‘By _queries_ do you mean your incessant tirade of questions and factoid drops?’ you find yourself saying before you really mean to. ‘Do you really have nothing better to do than memorise books and then bug people about them?’

‘I’ve got a photographic memory. I don’t see why everyone at Kamar-Taj has such a problem being asked questions. Well, actually-‘ he adds suddenly when you glare back over your shoulder at him ‘-that’s a lie, I do know. The questions inevitably reveal a gap in knowledge which proves a lack of comprehensive expertise and thus challenges the notion of a supposed meritocratic hierarchy.’

‘So unless someone can answer every single question _you_ ask, to _your _satisfaction, they must be a worthless pretender?’ you say with a snort.

‘Not _worthless_,’ he allows with another of those insufferable smirks. ‘Just not someone I’d necessarily deem a go-to expert on the topic at hand. Although again, you seem to be one of few exceptions.’

‘I’m honoured.’ Turning back and rolling your eyes, you resume walking.

‘There is one thing you still haven’t told me, though,’ he adds.

‘Which is?’

‘Why you don’t like me.’

‘Oh my god.’ You whirl and glare at him. ‘Are you _twelve_?’

‘A multiple thereof,’ he replies, deadpan. ‘Is it because I ask so many questions? Or just because I’ve written off so many of your fellow so-called masters as stuffy, pretentious windbags?’

That actually makes you snort in amusement.

‘A lot of the other masters _are_ stuffy, pretentious windbags.’

‘Not that, then.’

Scoffing, you get moving again and firmly turn to the left when the path forks, counting silently under your breath. You get to four.

‘What’s the other way?’

‘Lowland tundra. Not hospitable to aglaophotis, so no use to us.’

That gets a dry chuckle.

‘Fair enough.’

You wait for the followup barrage but in fact he actually goes blessedly quiet for a few moments while carefully picking his way after you through the narrow crystal gorge and out onto the glowing moorlands beyond. It seems to be getting warmer although the three suns aren’t much higher than they were when you arrived.

The unexpected scent of something halfway between sweet jasmine and tart lime makes you glance up, your steps slowing as you sniff at the breeze. The thick carpet of opaline heather covering the gentle hillside seems brighter than you recall. Perhaps it is in bloom? You’ve never seen that before.

‘You smell that too?’ Strange asks, halting just behind you when you pause. For some reason the scent of his proximity seems to overlay the flowers; fresh sweat, old books and some sort of gently spicy aroma that could have been aftershave or just plain old Tibetan soap.

It’s a _good_ combination, you think, and hurriedly quash that thought. The last thing you need is to dwell on how irrationally attracted you are to this good-looking, talkative douchebag.

‘It’s new,’ you say in reply to his question, frowning. ‘Not documented _or_ anything I’ve come across before on past visits.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘Maybe.’ You try a couple more judicious sniffs. Other than the growing hyper-awareness of his athletic form at your back, a little closer than propriety really permits, nothing seems out of the ordinary. There are such things as just flowers, though, even in the Satya Bagecha. ‘Let’s just keep an eye out.’

‘Only an eye?’ he quips, but falls back into step behind you when you move off again. ‘I thought this was what, your sixth visit here?’

‘Doesn’t mean I know everything about the place.’

‘Oh, how comforting.’

The immediate sarcasm in his tone makes you chortle.

‘This presumably relegates me back to the ranks of useless windbags then, does it?’

‘At least you admit your knowledge has gaps.’ A pause. ‘How exactly did you get into…mystical botany, anyway?’

‘Well, Garstin did say alchemy was the key to theurgy.’

‘In hermetic theory, which although interesting introductory material still hardly constitutes an accurate cosmology for the known multiverse. And I asked how _you_ got into it.’

‘I like flowers and trees. Green things.’ You shrug. ‘Mystical cytology is an extension of its mundane cousin, just as the practice of interdimensional energy channelling extends naturally from a thorough understanding of normal mathematics and physical sciences.’

‘Plants are plants?’ he suggested dryly. ‘So you studied a related field…before you came to Kamar-Taj?’

‘I enjoy gardening,’ you say, a little more bluntly than you mean to, because that kind of personal question is pushing the boat a _little_ too far. ‘What prompted _you_ to suddenly develop an interest in floristics after spending all your time to date buried in conventional sorcery?’

‘Curiosity,’ he says with a small shrug, not seeming to mind the admission. ‘In a world where it’s possible to summon and control frankly apocalyptic levels of power, the idea of focusing one’s interests on something more subtle has a certain…incongruity to it.’

‘Hmm. And nothing whatsoever to do with the idea of supernal herbalism to heal something that modern medicine has deemed impossible to heal?’ You sneak a sideways glance at him. ‘Severe nerve damage, for example?’

That gets a soft chuckle but your ears are too keen to miss the hint of bitterness behind it.

‘So you’re allowed to be well-informed about me, but I can’t know anything about you?’

‘You’ve hardly made the reason for your presence a secret.’

‘I suppose.’

‘I’ll save you some time,’ you add, and try to convince yourself it is as much from a desire not to have him tag along on any other expeditions as it is from genuine sympathy, ‘I’ve studied the plants of different accessible dimensions for nearly a decade now and I’ve never heard of anything with sufficient medicinal capability to repair or even mitigate that kind of damage.’

‘Right.’ There’s a _lot_ going on under that one flat declaration. Resignation, frustration, despondency. It takes the music out of his voice and somehow makes his entire presence diminish.

‘Of course that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything out there somewhere,’ you find yourself amending hurriedly in a slightly too-bright tone, inwardly cursing your innate proclivity for hopeless causes. ‘It’s an infinite multiverse, after all.’

‘Is that supposed to be comforting?’ Just like that the sarcasm is back. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question.’

‘Which one?’ you ask, somewhat half-heartedly as you pause at the crest of a small rise to inhale, wrinkling your nose because the jasmine-lime scent has noticeably intensified.

‘Why don’t you like me?’ He steps up beside you now the path is wide enough, and for some reason the feel of his shoulder next to yours sets off a bizarre but far from unpleasant churning low in your stomach.

‘I really think we have bigger concerns right now,’ you point out, looking at him while at the same time battling to restore your focus. The light of the suns turns his eyes to iridescent sapphires and highlights his patrician features, from the wry twist of his mouth to the oddly elegant dusting of silver at the temples of his dark hair.

‘Is it me,’ he says, seeming to have to concentrate to get the words out, ‘Or is that new scent getting stronger?’

‘You smell it too?’ you manage, for some reason fixated on the slim, expressive lines of his lips.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘It _is_ getting stronger.’

‘If you say so.’ He’s staring at you now, and you suspect you ought to be cheesed off about something but are struggling to think about anything except what it would be like to run your fingers over his neatly-trimmed goatee and lean in to press a kiss to that damned mouth.

Oh, crap.

‘Stop it,’ you assert firmly, raising a finger in warning, which just gets a small cock of his head.

‘Stop what? I’m not doing anything.’

You open your mouth to snap at him but can’t quite remember what you were so irate about. It was getting warmer, too. A _lot_ warmer than it ought to be, in fact. You were starting to feel positively feverish.

‘You’re perspiring,’ he says suddenly, and dabs a bead of sweat from his own forehead with the back of one hand, regarding it with mild puzzlement. ‘So am I. Accelerated breathing, too.’

You nearly step back in nonsensical alarm when he reaches for you, but he just presses two shaky fingers to your throat and grimaces after a moment.

‘Fast but still strong. Unlikely to be hyperthermia, although it is _hot_ out here all of a sudden…’

‘It is,’ you agree, keenly aware that he hasn’t retracted his hand. In fact his touch has sort of trailed down to the neck of your tunic, hovering there as if unsure whether to move back or do something else.

‘Mydriasis,’ he mutters, half to himself. ‘Or an…extreme pupillary response…’

‘What?’

‘Your pupils are dilated.’

‘So are yours.’ In fact there’s barely a thin rim of blue left on them. You can tell his breathing has sped up now, too, but then so has yours. ‘It’s too _warm_.’

‘We need to get out of here. Higher ground.’

‘We do?’

‘The scent-‘ he indicates the heather ‘-there’s a direct correlation between the physiological symptoms and the intensity of the odour. I think the microgametophytes being released might be having some kind of effect on us.’

It takes you a moment to process what he’s saying, firstly because the baritone rumble of his voice is suddenly very distracting, and secondly because the near-burning on your skin is getting steadily worse.

‘The _pollen_? You think we’ve got multidimensional hay fever or something?’

‘Actually the physical symptoms appear to more closely resemble a heavy dose of oxytocin and a surge in lutrophin production-‘

‘In _English_?’

‘Hormones that drive reproductive urges.’

You burst out laughing despite everything.

‘You think we’re in a field of _sex pollen_? Been reading too much of the wrong literature, Strange!’

‘Higher ground,’ he repeats, as though you’ve hit your head. ‘Which way?’

Motioning to the left, you succeed in getting moving in the right direction, up onto the drier ground where the heather thins to be replaced by rougher grasses. You’re still giggling by the time the sweet-sharp smell has gone altogether in favour of the cooler, fresher breeze at higher altitudes. Spotting a handy boulder covered with soft moss, you go to rest on it and try get your breath back.

When Strange perches alongside, you’re a little dismayed to feel the heat welling up again under your skin. The flattened rock isn’t that wide as a makeshift seat and the feel of his leg pressing against yours, even through multiple layers of clothing, seems to be sending sparks to your belly from the point of contact.

‘It might take a while to wear off,’ he says, wiping at his forehead and still clearly as uncomfortably warm as you are at present. ‘We both inhaled a lot of it, and most pollens will stick to hair, clothing, even skin, so...’

You glance at him and wonder for an instant why he’s sitting in that slightly lopsided sort of – oh. Well, his dark blue robes do help conceal it, if insufficiently to make it missable. Maybe he _was_ right about the whole sex pollen thing. But you’re both breathing deeply and avoiding looking at each other so whatever weird aphrodisiac effect the heathlands aroma has had will surely stop in a bit…

In a vague effort to improve airflow and hopefully lower your temperature, you loosen your belt and untuck your outer tunic. It takes a second to realise that the action has apparently caused Strange’s gaze to get riveted to your body. He looks away hurriedly when he realises that you’ve noticed. For one brief, satisfying moment you think that you see something like a blush on those exquisite cheeks.

‘There’s a river not too far from here,’ you offer. ‘Full of something close enough to water to be safe to rinse in.’

‘Right.’ He appears to consider this. ‘How far is not too far?’

‘Uh.’ You try to remember, not having much cause to go to the river itself on your usual visits. ‘Around a half hour’s walk, maybe?’

‘Might be safer to use sling rings.’

‘Not an option. Satya Bagecha’s in a constant state of greater orbital energy flux; fine to portal in and out from other dimensions, but-‘

‘-but not to move between internal locations without risking destabilisation of the local superstructural node,’ he finishes with a small slump of his shoulders. ‘Right.’

‘Right.’ Taking out the canteen from your satchel, you offer it to him. He accepts with a mutter of thanks and takes a long swig, then passes it back so you can do the same. It takes more self-control than you care to admit not to dump the remainder over your head in an effort to cool off.

What you definitely don’t expect is for Strange to lean suddenly across and _lick_ a rogue drip of water off your chin, just as it edges down from your lower lip. You freeze, reflexively clenching your thighs together and feeling another surge of heat low in your belly that has nothing to do with temperature.

He draws back quickly, breathing hard.

‘I’m sorry. I’m…not used to being envious of drops of water.’

‘Envious?’ You try to sound bland but your voice comes out distinctly arch as if of its own accord. There’s a bead of sweat from his forehead sliding slowly down over his left brow, and all you want to do is lift your head to _lick_ it off him and to hell with the consequences.

‘Do you have even the remotest idea how incredibly sexy you are?’ he says, still inclined towards you while his gaze flicks back and forth over your face. ‘Especially when you do that.’

‘Do what?’ But then you realise you’ve been nibbling on your bottom lip and hurriedly stop. It’s a nervous habit, one you’ve never quite managed to shake. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he breathes, one hand coming up to lay a palm against your cheek. You lean into his touch without conscious decision; it’s bizarrely cooling against your skin. When his thumb strokes tremulously across the seam of your lips you part them and draw the tip of the digit into your mouth.

What are you _doing_?

Strange groans, a low and masculine rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. For a moment he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply as if to centre himself, and then starts to draw back. You grab at the front of his tunic to put a stop to that, leaning in yourself so that when his eyes open again you’re almost nose to nose.

‘The unlikely effects of this pollen aside,’ he murmurs, more than a tad breathlessly, ‘I don’t think either of us is in a position to explicitly consent to this going any further-‘

You kiss him then, your hindbrain seeming to have had enough with troublesome debate, knowing what it wants-slash-needs and just damned well taking control of the situation. He’s utterly delectable, all spice and mint and _man_ and you drink in the taste of his mouth like an elixir, pressing closer with what sounds suspiciously like a little whimper when he cups your face in both hands, tilting your head slightly to take control of the kiss.

‘Oh god.’ He breaks off after a long moment, but doesn’t look away. You’re fairly sure you look as much of a mess as he does at the moment – tousled hair, eyes heavy lidded, cheeks heated – but you also don’t care one jot and reach up in turn to run your fingers through the stripes of silver at his temples, tangling them through the rest of his dark hair. His head actually lolls back into your hands, like your touch is painful to be without, then he grips and shifts you so that you’re properly in his arms.

‘Please,’ you manage, mildly wondering at how breathy and desperate you sound even to your own ears.

‘This isn’t fair,’ he mutters, a ripple of tension running along his jaw. ‘I didn’t – not like this.’

‘God dammit Strange.’ Frustration brings something like coherence back and you grab his bearded chin to make him look at you. ‘You wanted to know why I don’t like you? You’re an insufferable know-it-all and an arrogant jerk and you talk _far_ too much but you’re so _unbearably attractive_ that I can barely concentrate on how much you annoy me because all I want to do is climb you like a god damned tree.’

That seems to give him genuine pause and the fog in his gaze is briefly replaced by something else that you’re far too riled up to bother trying to interpret.

‘So shove your introspective politeness,’ you add through gritted teeth, ‘And to hell with your endocrine medical mumbo-jumbo. Shut up and for god’s sake just _fuck me_.’

That thankfully seems to do the trick; in a trice he’s flipped you onto your back and is claiming your mouth in a far more violent and thorough kiss, all teeth and tongue, while shoving his knee up to part your thighs. Itching for more of his skin, you start scrabbling inelegantly at his belt, heedless of where leather and cloth falls as you tug it off to part his tunic and yank it back off his arms. His build is deceptively broad and better muscled than you’d realised, and you get so lost in the feel of sturdy tendon and sinew that you barely even notice as he rapidly pulls your clothes to pieces. Spreading your tunic open, he fiddles beneath your back with one hand for a moment before abandoning the idea with a low curse and just rucking your bra up towards your collarbone to expose your breasts.

The light scratch of his beard and the soft slick of his tongue feels beyond incredible on your nipples, which are already painfully hard. You arch up towards him as he switches from the left to the right, then register the still-confined heavy length against your inner leg and snake an arm down to find the lacings on his pants. He grunts without lifting his head, and you pull away layers impatiently until you can feel the silk-steel of his cock in your palm. You run your thumb over the wet head, which makes him break off from your chest with a moan. Clumsily he yanks lacings and boots off before surging back up your body to fully strip your bra over your head and kiss you again, settling his hips between your legs. There’s a moment of fumbling around your waistband and then you hear him curse again, levering himself up on one elbow to glare down at his scarred, shaking hand in disgusted annoyance.

‘Here.’ You undo the last button yourself and tug everything downward until it is past your knees. It takes a little ungainly wriggling to get it past your ankles and off along with your boots, but then he’s kissing you again and the momentary inelegance is already forgotten with you both naked. His fingers probe at the apex of your thighs with a stymied clumsiness you’re absolutely certain is solely the fault of the nerve damage, but then he shifts and moves and the delicious, burning stretch of his cock takes away all semblance of remaining coherent thought. Admittedly it’s been a while for you but he’s _perfect_, long and curved and just the right thickness, hitting all the best spots with every achingly slow thrust. The drag back out is just as leisurely, almost deliberate, and after only a few rocks of his hips you’re raking your nails down his back as the knot in your belly tightens and explodes.

You cry out, clawing at his shoulder blades, but he just plants his forearms on either side of your head and keeps right on moving without so much as a breath, the continued friction painful for a minute until your body surrenders to the continued pleasure, nerve endings sparking all over again. It seems like no time at all before you hit another peak, this time feeling a dull rush deep inside as he comes too. For an instant you regret that it’s already over, but then he grabs one of your legs and lifts it, hooking your ankle up and around to the small of his back, and in a vague daze you realise he’s still hard inside your brimming core.

Groaning in what might be relief or just simple gratification, you reach to dig your nails into his buttocks alongside your heel, urging him on as he begins to ram into you again, this time much more rapidly and urgently. Your whole body is on fire now, but this is less a dense heat and more like a live electric current that dances through your nerve endings and sets your skin alight with pleasure. Another orgasm crashes over you and you gasp, panting and clinging to him as he fucks you through it and into the next one, which leaves you wrung out and trembling all over as he fills you up again with an almost feral noise of satisfaction.

This time he takes two shaky breaths and withdraws. You feel like you could weep at the sudden lack of his cock in your overfull pussy, but even as you feel wetness seeping out from between your legs onto the moss-covered rock he’s lifting you, turning you onto your stomach and raising your thighs to prop you on your knees. Moaning again as you realise what he’s about, you arch your back to present as he again slides home, the new angle hitting deeper and different spots deep inside you. The dull, wet slap of his thighs impacting your ass has you pushing back on him, keening like some wild thing, and somehow you feel another orgasm building in your core.

You can’t do much more than pant and squirm when it hits you. Barely bracing yourself to stay upright, you let your head fall as your neck goes lax, biting your lip as Strange continues to pound into you. He’s outright gasping now, gripping your skin tight enough to bruise, and when he once again paints your insides you’re amazed you can still feel it given how full you are. You start to turn, to move, but end up on your back once more as he thrusts back in, impossibly hard already yet again. In a handful of seconds you’re reduced to nothing but a grasping, writhing mass of sensation as somehow another climax builds in your belly, twisting the pleasure higher and higher until it explodes from you as an actual scream.

The snap of his hips speeds up and then falters before he plunges in hard, the deepest yet, straining against your body with a guttural moan as he floods your pussy once more. You feel it seeping out of you when he finally withdraws to collapse bonelessly beside you, but barely register yourself relaxing into the soft moss before exhaustion and welcome oblivion overcome you.

When you drift back into consciousness the sky is lighter, the three suns now high overhead. You expect to be clammy with sweat but the cooler hillside air has lifted the moisture from your skin. Not from between your legs, though, and god only knows what that’ll do to the moss here…the thought strikes you as funny but when you try to sit up your body finally registers protest. Odd; you’d expected to feel raw and wounded, given the nature of the exertion, but in fact it is more like a dim but bone-deep ache in your legs and lower body. Groaning, you prop yourself on your elbows and start to lever yourself vaguely upright into a sitting position, only to be arrested by the realisation that Strange is still unconscious beside you, laying on his front with one long arm slung over your waist.

Of course he’s as naked as you are, not that the view is anything to complain about. His body is as pale as the rest of him, although he has more freckles than you would have expected. You try not to grin at the sight of the red lines carved into the skin of his shoulders, not to mention the half-moon indents your nails have left on his ass. At least you didn’t actually draw blood.

He’s actually rather cute when he’s asleep. At the very least he’s _quiet_.

As if on cue he stirs and his hand reflexively tightens on your hip, then his eyes open and narrow in a frown before going wide as recognition hits.

‘Ah. Hello.’

Naturally he’d get the first word in. But somehow you can’t find it in you to be irritated.

‘Hi.’ You look down pointedly at his arm and he hurriedly removes it, sitting up with a small wince that at least confirms he’s feeling as sore as you are. After a moment you do the same, setting your jaw as the overused muscles in your stomach protest.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, glancing back at you with his gaze firmly on your face.

‘Feel like I’ve just gone a dozen sparring rounds in the courtyard without a break.’ You rotate your shoulders carefully, testing your own responses. ‘What about you?’

‘Know the feeling,’ he says wryly. ‘And…a little low on electrolytes, but I think I’ll survive.’

That makes you chuckle before you can censor it, and you’re vaguely relieved when he shoots you a rather impish grin in return.

‘We should probably put our clothes back on.’

‘Yes. I think we should.’

It doesn’t take very long once you’ve sorted out the tangle of heedlessly-flung clothing and wraps, and is thankfully a rather brisk affair. Not much point in sparing any blushes at this stage, and you’re honestly relieved that he seems to have made the decision to act like an adult rather than an insufferable brat. You give your robes a thorough shake just in case, but there doesn’t seem to be much to come off them; presumably Bagechan heather-sex-pollen-whatever-it-was isn’t inclined to cling to cloth in a prolonged fashion.

You do, however, give a bark of laughter when the clump of aglaophotis flowers growing _right_ next to the mossy rock catches your eye. Strange glances up after lacing up his boots and follows your gaze.

‘You’re kidding me…’

‘I wish.’ Finding the satchel from wherever you threw it, you crouch to begin carefully plucking the long stems, getting them as close to the roots as possible so the blossoms will survive long enough to be dried. Up close they rather resemble vivid blue-purple peonies.

‘At least we won’t have to chance the heather again,’ Strange observes wryly, hunkering down beside you. ‘I take it you’ve never encountered that…reaction before?’

‘Definitely not,’ you say, keeping your focus firmly on wrapping each bloom in sanctified flax paper to preserve it for the trip back.

‘Of course the idea of a pollen-borne aphrodisiac acting as some kind of mystical and gender-agnostic phenethylamine is dubious at best,’ he adds.

Already back to form, apparently.

‘Really,’ you say disinterestedly.

‘Far more likely that the material acted as an oxytocin production stimulant in some way, still affecting libido but more significantly reducing inhibitions.’

‘Inhibitions?’ Standing back up, you tuck the wrapped flowers securely into your satchel and affect innocence.

‘Well, since I’m so _unbearably attractive_, presumably the heather just got rid of your hesitance to-‘ his mouth quirks slightly and he straightens too, stepping up to you ‘-climb me like a god-damned tree?’

Oh, wonderful.

Setting your jaw, you tilt your chin up and level your best impassive stare at him. Which is hard to do given the knowledge of just how hard he was fucking you into the moss not two strides away a couple of hours ago, but you feel like you mostly pull it off.

‘Then what’s your excuse, Strange?’ you challenge.

He cracks a lopsided grin.

‘I – ah – I didn’t contrive to come along on this little expedition because I was curious about what passes for herbalism in the mystic arts. The truth is I find you…intriguing.’

‘Me?’ That throws you for a loop and you wrinkle your nose. ‘Why?’

‘Well, like I said, in an environment where controlling the elemental forces that shape reality is the norm, finding someone so focused on something as comparatively docile as botany is frankly fascinating.’

You snort.

‘_Docile_? Where were you for the last few – um – hours?’

That gets a genuine chuckle, the first you think you’ve heard from him that doesn’t hold a note of cynicism.

‘Fair point. I’ll allow myself to be corrected on the supposed tameness of mystical botany. Although you do have quite the reputation around the sanctums, you know.’

That makes you look up at him again.

‘The weirdo who gardens instead of pursuing a higher knowledge of the multiverse?’

‘Hmm. I’d say more the mysterious greenwoman who stands apart from most mere sorcerers, gatekeeper to who knows what kinds of tantalising and possibly forbidden knowledge…’

‘I bet you sweet talk all the women you inhale sex pollen with,’ you remark with a grin that echoes his own, aware that you’re both flirting now but not really minding.

‘For a record of one I’ll have to concede that,’ he shoots back. ‘Although I admit this is a particular bit of information I won’t want to exactly spread around.’

‘Not going to write a treatise on inhibition and refractory period-removing microgametophytes to add a little spice to Wong’s collection?’

To your lasting gratification he nearly chokes on his own laughter at that, but now you’ve got more than enough aglaophotis to keep the oneiromancers in lucid dreams for months so you force yourself to turn businesslike.

‘We should head back. Watch more carefully this time and you might see how to _actually _open a gateway properly from a realm like this.’

It feels almost surreal to step back into Kathmandu. Strange insists on accompanying you to the sheds and helps you to hang the blooms up for drying, listening intently when you half-mindlessly ramble about the necessity of the process in order to preserve the potency of the flower’s effects. When you go back outside you’re a little surprised to see the Ancient One standing by the cherry tree in the small courtyard.

‘You’re back,’ she observes. ‘After most of a day.’

‘Took a while to spot a decent crop,’ you say. Which is, after all, technically true.

‘It’s not a problem,’ she assures gently with a tiny smile. ‘How did you find the Bagecha, Stephen?’

Strange constructs a shrug of sorts.

‘It was…interesting. Quite an eye-opener, in fact.’

‘Good. You’ll benefit from at least a basic understanding of the broader disciplines of the mystic arts, even if you don’t specialise in them yourself.’

‘Oh, I can definitely see the potential in extradimensional herbalism,’ he assures her, if anything a little _too_ effusively.

‘A worthwhile exercise, then.’ Turning, she walks away but glances back just before turning the corner. ‘I hope you both enjoyed the heather. It only blooms every three hundred years, by our measure of time.’

You feel your jaw drop as she leaves without further comment, but your shell-shock is broken by a peal of laughter from Strange.

‘As if she _wouldn’t_ know.’ Then he turns to you, arching an eyebrow. ‘Clearly I need to be _very_ careful with who I describe as intriguing around here. Although did _you_ say something to her?’

‘You’re assuming something needs to be _said_ for her to know it,’ you point out, but amusement has definitely replaced shock. ‘She’s always telling me to lighten up and have some fun.’

‘She’s always telling _me_ to look for something fulfilling beyond my studies,’ he replies playfully. ‘I’d say we both got made for this one. Not that I’m complaining.’

‘Hmm.’ Then you take pity on him. ‘Me neither. You’re actually a lot less insufferable when you’re naked.’

He chuckles.

‘Well, at the risk of pushing my luck while fully clothed…join me in the refectory? If you’re not adverse to talking shop I would like to quiz you some more on – ah – botanical matters. Like what the hell anyone even needs aglaophotis blossoms for.’

‘All right, then.’ You try not to erupt into giggles at that mildly exasperated tone. ‘I’ll brew us some fresh tea, in that case. We could both use some rehydration.’

‘Careful,’ he warns with a grin, ‘Hydrating in front of me is what got you into this mess.’

‘You don’t have the pollen to blame this time, though.’ Then, very deliberately, you look sideways at him and bite at your lower lip.

The forcibly deadpan expression that descends on his face is worth it.

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Not my fault that you find a perfectly normal facial tic – what was the term – _incredibly sexy_?’ It’s hard not to preen a little at the reminder, though. Nobody’s ever called you that before. ‘Or was that just the oxytocin talking?’

‘Definitely _not_ just the oxytocin,’ he says firmly, and you can’t help but notice the way his gaze flickers down to linger for a moment on your mouth. ‘Perhaps we should talk about something _other_ than botany over dinner.’

‘Really,’ you tease. ‘Like what?’

‘Like-‘ he cracks a grin ‘-whether you still don’t like me.’

‘Jury’s still out,’ you tell him dryly. ‘I’ll let you know.’

He just inclines his head and offers you his arm with droll solemnity. You even surprise yourself by taking it and falling into step towards the inner courtyard.

‘Not that I imagine the off-the-shelf version would have the same level of execution, Strange,’ you add, ‘But if you ever do put down the books long again enough to want to blow off some steam, as it were, I wouldn’t necessarily be adverse to another rendezvous. Possibly with an actual _bed_, this time.’

‘I would definitely say the same.’ He seems pleased at that, then frowns slightly. ‘What do you mean, _the same level of execution_?’

‘I severely doubt a non-pollinized performance would have the same capacity to make me lose track of the number of orgasms I’ve had,’ you say with affected innocence, which gets a bark of amused laughter.

‘Hmm. Admittedly the last time I was fully cognizant on the matter I had full use of my hands, but still-‘ he actually winks at you, and you’re only a tiny bit ashamed of the way it makes your stomach flutter ‘-I _do_ have an extremely comprehensive knowledge of the human nervous system.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ you ask.

The wicked grin he shoots you actually makes your eyebrows rise.

‘Challenge accepted.’

**Author's Note:**

> Why is there so little fic for the Sorcerer Supreme? I may have to remedy this a bit more myself.


End file.
